


Ice Cream

by Sw33tCh377yPi3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Groom Draco Malfoy, H/D Food Fair 2018, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Pining Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Wedding Caterer Harry Potter, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-28 15:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sw33tCh377yPi3/pseuds/Sw33tCh377yPi3
Summary: Sometimes the critical moment passes us by. If we’re fortunate, we get a second—or third—chance.





	Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[146](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit). 
> 
> I tried to make it funny! I really did. Nobody was cooperating. There might be a couple of giggles, but it’s more Notting Hill-ish, I think. The boys’ clashes are subtle; stubbornness more than anything. Thank you to the mods for their lovely fest and their endless patience with me. Thank you to my beta, J, for lightning fast work. If this is not up to usual standards, it is entirely my fault and not hers. Thank you to the original prompter, for the cute idea. I do not claim any rights to anything Harry Potter-related, nor to the song “Ice Cream” by Sarah McLachlan. No money is being made from either, nor is any copyright infringement of either intended.

 

_Your love_

_is better than ice cream,_

_better than anything else that I’ve tried._

_Your love is better than ice cream._

_Everyone here knows how to cry._

 

June 19, 2001

“These have the embossing, as well. The sample doesn’t show the letterpress printing, but Germaine would certainly be happy to create something custom, I’m sure.” Padma Patil-Smith handed the thick, ivory card to the woman seated across from her.

“Hmm, I just don’t know,” Narcissa Malfoy mused. “Perhaps it’s a bit too…plain? Even if we add the silver metallic edge painting, I’m not sure it’s enough. What do you think, Draco? …Draco?”

A subtle elbow in the right side of his ribcage startled Draco Malfoy, and he looked up and to his left, into his mother’s pinched face, her mouth a disapproving moue. “Oh! Ah—Forgive me Mother, but you know I don’t have a strong opinion about the invitations. Perhaps you should ask Phoebe. It is, after all, her wedding also.” He gestured to the elbow-thrower beside him, whose trembling lips belied the glare she shot him as Narcissa obligingly turned to show the bride the sample of her wedding invitation.

Draco had moved away—run away, really—to a wizarding university in Paris after finishing Hogwarts. He was grateful for his freedom, grateful for his future, grateful to Harry bloody Potter, who had given him both…but somehow England had suddenly seemed too small to contain the two of them. He needed air. He needed people who wouldn’t automatically associate him with the worst things he’d ever done.

Phoebe had been the first of them. She was also a student at the university, living in the flat across from his own. Pureblooded, if Canadian, she was tall and long-limbed with a wide smile, flashing dark eyes, and a slightly dark and perverse sense of humor that matched his own. Even after he’d broken down one night after too much wine and told her every detail of his past, she’d been his staunch supporter—the first person in his life who truly believed he had changed.

Well, no. The second.

It wasn’t until his parents had invited them both to visit for the holidays during his second year that Draco realized they had misunderstood his gushing letters about his friend. He’d thought when he’d come out to them before leaving the country that the matter had been settled. Apparently, Phoebe coming into the picture had merely made them hopeful that his homosexuality had been a phase. Unfortunately, Phoebe’s bronze curls and creamy skin only urged him to raid her toiletries.

Yet by the time the holidays had arrived, his parents’ pleading letters and his own loneliness and longing for a family had convinced him that marrying his best friend was quite a good idea. He had asked her to join him in Wiltshire for Christmas, and Phoebe had appeared shocked but pleased. The courtship announcement had appeared in _The Daily Prophet_ on New Year’s Day, and on her birthday in April Draco had presented her with an heirloom emerald solitaire engagement ring, which she had accepted.

Now it was June, and both he and Phoebe were attempting to stay afloat in the wake of Narcissa Malfoy and _“The Event of the Century.”_

“Yes, you’re absolutely correct, Mrs. Patil-Smith,” Narcissa was saying as he turned his attention back to the conversation. “We want the impression to be luxe, not vulgar.”

“I do like Padma’s choice, with the double-border,” Phoebe ventured.

“I think it’s ideal!” Narcissa beamed, clearly pleased with the taste of both the wedding planner and her future daughter-in-law. “Draco?”

“Er, yes. Of course. Ideal.”

“Wonderful,” Padma smiled. “I will get that order in immediately. Now, the next thing on the list is the reception dinner. I have a list of caterers—”

“Oh no, we simply must have Enchanted Events,” Narcissa interrupted. “They’ve done every noteworthy party I’ve been to in the last two years! They’re the best, everyone knows that.”

“Unfortunately, Enchanted has a very full schedule,” Padma said tentatively. “I’m certain—”

“Ms. Patil-Smith, you came very highly recommended,” Narcissa Malfoy cut through in a steely sort of tone. “It would be terribly inconvenient to change wedding planners at this point in the process. But rest assured, if you cannot deliver on a simple request, I will do so. And I will also ensure that anyone who cares to know why is informed of my disappointment.”

Padma sank back against the velvet settee and glanced at Draco. He made a face behind his mother’s shoulder and mouthed “Sorry.” In his peripheral, he saw Phoebe give her a sympathetic smile.

“I will do what I can, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa’s smile was brittle. “Splendid.”

 

 

“Padma, I can’t,” Harry sighed, rapidly stirring something in a pot with a wooden spoon. A divine fragrance wafted up.

Padma ignored her growling stomach. “Oh, but Harry, you don’t understand. The Malfoys will fire me if I can’t get the caterer that they want for Draco’s wedding, and I _need_ this commission! It will finally be enough to—I mean, I can—” she faltered, embarrassed, and her eyes skittered away.

“To leave Zach?” Harry finished softly, wiping his hands on a plain white cloth.

She looked up, startled. “How did you…?”

He tossed the cloth onto the counter with another sigh. “I think most of us have known for a while. We didn’t want to put our noses in.” He suddenly straightened with a dark look. “He hasn’t--?”

“No, no.” She shook her head adamantly. “Nothing physical. It’s just—just the women. And the laying about all day when he isn’t with one of them.”

“And usually hungover, I reckon?” He snorted at her nod. “You’ll be well rid of him.”

“I know,” she said softly. She turned dark, imploring eyes on him. “I’ve been putting what I could in a secret vault, but it might be years before I get another commission like this.”

Harry leaned back against the edge of the counter and crossed his arms. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to just move in with me?”

Padma set her jaw, shook her head. “I got married after the war because I didn’t have anyone or anything. I thought Zach was going to save me. I can’t just find a substitute knight. I need to—I _have_ to save myself. And be out here _by_ myself. I need to know who I am.”

He looked down and scratched the back of his head. “You know what this is going to—”

“I know.” When he looked up, she reached out and caught his fingers with hers, gave him a small smile.

“Yeah, I reckon you do.” He returned her smile, but his was much sadder.

 

 

June 22, 2001

“You’d like Phoebe, Harry,” Hermione insisted as she divided a bottle of red wine between five glasses. “I wasn’t certain that I would when the department brought her in, and knowing she was Malfoy’s fiancée, but she’s smart and hardworking and has a wicked sense of humor.” She picked up one of the full glasses and held it out to him.

“She must like you as well,” he said noncommittally while accepting his wine. He took a sip and placed it on the counter to continue serving up supper. “Asking you to be in the wedding and all.”

“I don’t think she has many friends here yet,” Ron joined in as he approached the kitchen from the back of the house where he’d been changing his daughter. He jostled Rose on his hip as she babbled. “Hermione and her sister are her entire bridal party, from what I hear.”

Hermione nodded. “And Margot and her family don’t arrive until just before the wedding. She’s been married for years, apparently—she and her husband already have four children—and isn’t at all interested in any of the wedding things.”

“Malfoy likely isn’t, either,” Ginny mused, turning slightly to toss the Caesar salad she’d assembled without her rounded belly getting in the way. “A lot of men aren’t.”

“He wasn’t there when the flowers were chosen. Of course, the bride wasn’t, either,” Neville chuckled.

“You should have seen Neville and I jumping through hoops,” Padma groused before taking a mouthful of wine, “trying to please that bloody woman--Narcissa, not Phoebe.”

“Felt a bit like a trained Crup. At least she was happy with the flowers when she left the greenhouse. And she’s paying a fortune for the peonies to be under stasis. _Peonies_ in _October_ ,” he muttered, and Ginny patted her husband’s shoulder with an understanding smile.

Harry allowed his friends’ conversation to wash over him as he busied himself transferring food into serving dishes. He enjoyed having them all over once a week; they were more than his friends, they were his family. But as time passed, he couldn’t ignore the fact that they were all moving on, making their own _real_ families. Ron and Hermione were discussing a second child, and Neville and Ginny were expecting twins in September. Even Padma was married, if not happy—and at least she had a plan for _being_ happy.

Harry had no plan. Sometimes he felt as though he had _less_ than no plan, as if he were doing so little living that on the scale of life achievement, his number was a negative. His world had come to a halt after the final battle. No, it was later, because he remembered still moving that day in front of the Wizengamot. His world had stopped watching Draco Malfoy walk down the pavement and out of his everyday life. Or maybe the day he’d read that the blond had left the country. Whichever moment it was, the fact that Malfoy had taken something vital away with him was inescapable.

“It’s been two years,” Ron murmured as he lifted a plate of quail from beside Harry’s elbow. “He’s getting married. It’s time to let go, mate.”  

Harry avoided his gaze and managed not to grimace. It was the elephant in the room—so close to tangible that even Ron had noticed months ago. Harry’s crush, his madness, whatever they were calling it this week, had not lessened with time or distance. If anything, it had become more intense. He’d lost his chance to find out what it was that Malfoy had taken away with him, to find out if maybe it was Harry’s heart.

And now he had to cater the bastard’s wedding.

Harry forced a smile onto his face, knowing he needed the practice, and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Cheers.”

 

 

June 23, 2001

“I heard from Ms. Patil-Smith today,” Phoebe said conversationally as she cut into her eggs benedict at brunch the next day. She glanced up to find Narcissa and Lucius staring at her with rapt attention while Draco pushed coddled eggs around his plate with a fork. “She has convinced Enchanted Events to accommodate us, even though their schedule is incredibly demanding.” She took a delicate bite of muffin, ham, poached egg, and hollandaise sauce.

Narcissa’s entire body seemed to deflate as the tension left her. “Thank goodness. We simply could not have moved forward with an inferior caterer. It would have been a catastrophe! I dare say we would have had to cancel the entire affair.”

Lucius stared at his wife for a moment and then turned his attention back to his son’s betrothed with a nod. “Sensible people,” he murmured, going back to his coffee and the business section of the paper.

Phoebe leaned over and tapped Draco on the forearm until he glanced up. “Are you pleased?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course. Whatever makes you happy.” He did his best to smile, and it must have looked genuine, because she smiled in return.

“I know you haven’t been very involved in the planning,” she said quietly. “It’s normal for men to be disinterested in the details, or so I’m told. But I thought you might like to choose the wedding dinner yourself. You know I’m not at all particular, and I can keep your mother busy with some other wedding task, so that you might actually enjoy it.” Her smile turned sly, and then he couldn’t help but _truly_ grin in return.

“Shame on you. I love my mother,” he murmured lowly.

Phoebe arched a brow at him.

“I simply love her much better from a distance.” He chuckled and Phoebe giggled, and the foreboding sense that he had lost something very important slipped away for a little while.

_And it’s a long way down,_

_it’s a long way down,_

_it’s a long way down_

_to the place where we started from._

 

 

June 25, 2001

Draco tentatively pushed open the glass door of the nondescript storefront off Gray’s Inn Road in muggle London. No name was visible anywhere, and the building that housed Enchanted Events could only be identified by its periwinkle trim and the existence of a pub called The Blue Lion to the left.  As the door swung closed, a cluster of silver bells hanging from the top edge tinkled merrily.

There was one room, smallish but very clean, with walls of the same shade as the trim. The backmost of these had a single door in the center marked “Employees Only.” The only furniture in the place was a rectangular, silver metal table running nearly the entire width. Draco settled himself into one of the four matching metal chairs.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” came a disembodied voice—a very familiar voice--as the employee door began to open. Harry Potter came into view, allowing the door to swing closed behind him. “I wanted to prepare several concepts for you to choose from, and I ran a bit behind.” He offered a tentative smile.

Draco swallowed. It had been two years since he’d been in a room with Harry Potter—slightly more than—and yet it was as though no time had passed at all. He instantly felt awkward and horribly imperfect and disgustingly desperate for the man’s attention. “That’s alright,” he heard himself say from far away as he took in the changes in the other man. He’d filled out, found some clothing that fit and specs that suited him, and he now wore a light layer of dark stubble, as though he wanted people to know that he _could_ shave, he just _couldn’t_ be arsed.

“Draco?”

He blinked, brought out of his semi-hypnosis. “Yes?”

Potter’s smile had dimmed a bit, and his brow was furrowed. “I said, I thought we’d be joined by your lovely bride.”

“Oh!” Draco’s felt his face redden. “No, she has delegated this one to me. She isn’t at all fussy,” he added.

The other man’s face visibly relaxed, and he nodded. “We’ll get started, then.” He slipped his wand from a holster underneath his sleeve and used it to lower the blinds and lock the door. It was then that Draco remembered that Potter hadn’t ever exactly _liked_ him and began to worry.

Several lit candles appeared overhead, casting a glow over the dimmed room. “This might seem silly, as it’s only you and me. I think most couples assume the ambience is for romance. That’s part of it, I suppose; if we can emulate the mood of your wedding day, you’ll know better what you’d like to consume in that sort of environment. But also, we’re slightly dulling your sense of vision. That enhances the taste of the food and gives you a truer impression. I want my clients to choose the food they want to _eat,_ not just the food they enjoy looking at the most.

Draco nodded mutely, afraid of opening his mouth and putting his foot in it. The truth was, he wasn’t going to feel all that romantic on his wedding day, but he was feeling awfully romantic in this moment, and it had very little to do with the lighting.

Harry waved his wand toward the employee door and a silver cart came rolling out and pulled alongside Draco’s table. Harry stepped up.

“This is the first concept I’ve designed. It celebrates Wiltshire and will tell your guests a gastronomic story about your home. As I’m sure you know, Wiltshire is famous for its high-quality pork, and so I’ve made it the star.” He picked up a small plate and placed it on the table. “The starter is a duet, as you can see.” He pointed. “This is a ripe mission fig filled with honey-whipped Stilton and diced Wiltshire streaky bacon. The figs are from a small glasshouse farm in Salisbury. Next to it is a hallowed miniature pear from the same farm with a stuffing of the removed diced pear, chopped local English walnuts, the diced Wiltshire bacon, and a touch of small-batch goat cheese out of Malmesbury. I adapted this one for your tastes, as it’s generally done with chestnuts rather than walnuts. But since you hate chestnuts, I think the walnuts work quite well. It’s also a good chance to include—”

“How did you know I hate chestnuts?” Draco asked, flustered.

Harry grinned ruefully. “The last meal in the Great Hall, before the holidays. They always served chestnuts, remember? You always made a face at them and pushed the platter as far away from you as it could be.”

Draco grimaced. “Feels like eating someone’s fingernails, I’d imagine.” He leveled a look at Harry from under his lashes. “Also, obsessed much?”

Harry laughed and scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I was.” His gaze seemed to roam all over Draco’s face without worry for his reaction. The blond’s heart skipped before he ruthlessly shut it down, clearing his throat.

“So, for the main…?”

Harry showed him bacon-wrapped scallops paired with sliced pork tenderloin under a sour cherry and spicy mustard chutney. The other two concept selections were just as pleasing, one paying homage to Phoebe’s Canadian roots and the other a rich, French feast. Draco sampled everything, feeling full to bursting but reluctant to end his visit a moment sooner than necessary.

In the end, they settled on a mix of the three selections, a menu that might not have seemed right on paper, but somehow worked together perfectly.

 

 

July 6, 2001

“What do you think?” Harry tipped his head and studied the piece of art, trying to figure out what he was looking at.

“I think Phoebe would hate it. Is that—is that a nipple?”

“I think it’s supposed to be a mountain, actually. Do you think Malfoy would like it?”

“It’s pretentious and screams ‘expensive.’ He’d love it. But I bet he wouldn’t know what it was, either.”

“Be serious, Hermione,” Harry huffed, moving away from the painting and continuing down the aisle of the boutique.

After selecting the food for his wedding reception, Draco had stayed and sampled some of the wine pairings Harry recommended. They’d chatted about nothing important, and then the man had invited Harry to the coed wedding shower planned for the Saturday following. In true Harry Potter fashion, he had put off finding a gift until the day before. Even though Draco—Malfoy—had insisted that Harry shouldn’t bring anything but himself, he felt driven to find just the right thing.

Hermione paused by a crystal punch set. “This is lovely.”

“Sure. Or what about this?” Harry gestured to a sculpted, sterling silver shaving kit with a kid leather case. “He prefers to shave the muggle way.”

Behind his back, Hermione rolled her eyes. “I doubt Phoebe would use a men’s shaving kit, Harry. We’re looking for something for the engaged _couple_.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, you pick something, then.”

She tucked her arm into his and tugged him along. They browsed quietly for a few moments before she said, “I’m sorry. This can’t be easy for you.”

Harry sighed. “It’s ridiculous. What was I going to do? Stand on the pavement and stare at his window every day?”

“True. The logistics of stalking were easier when you shared living space.”

“I was not stalk—Oh fine, hush. Say…” He stopped abruptly and motioned toward an elegantly carved, ivory stone basin.

Hermione squelched her giggles and studied the pensive for a moment before nodding decisively. “Perfect.”

 

 

July 7, 2001

The shower was both better and worse than Harry had feared.

It was better because he found that his friends had been correct, and he did truly and honestly like Phoebe. She worked hard to include him, especially when she was taking the mickey out of her fiancé, while Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy glared at him while whispering sharply together.

It was worse because seeing Draco and Phoebe opening their gifts and posing for pictures and laughing together didn’t offer him the closure he had hoped, only a heavy dose of envy to accompany his heartache. When Malfoy opened Harry’s green-and-silver wrapped gift and smiled with delight over the pensive, the pang of what he was losing nearly overwhelmed the pleasure over having chosen the perfect gift. When Narcissa had quickly suggested having a pensive recording done of the wedding ceremony now that it could be viewed as much as the couple desired, Harry leapt after the distraction and began suggesting people he had worked with at past weddings who could help them.

“What a thoughtful gift, Potter,” Lucius said silkily. “It will fit perfectly on the living room mantel in the house we’ve gifted Draco and our lovely daughter-in-law to be. They can view again their wedding vows anytime they might be tempted to forget the honor—the duty,” he enunciated, “that they owe…to each other.” His gaze was even more penetrating than his wife’s.

“Open my gift next,” Padma said loudly, breaking the awkwardness that had suddenly filled the room. “I hope it isn’t too common, but I know…”

Harry stopped listening and stared into his glass of champagne punch as Phoebe exclaimed over a fancy cheese serving set. The Malfoys were clearly sending him a message. What he couldn’t fathom was why they would bother. Even if they suspected his feelings for their son, why should they be concerned? Draco was engaged to someone else— _in love_ with someone else. That fragile moment when their newfound truce might have moved forward into something other than this casual acquaintanceship had passed two years ago—or perhaps only ever existed in Harry’s mind.

He looked up to find Draco staring at him, concern etched on his brow. Pressing his shaky palms against his thighs, Harry gave him his best smile, and Draco smiled back, though his eyes were still troubled.

 

 

July 21, 2001

“Thanks for meeting me,” Draco told Harry as they strolled down the pavement of Diagon Alley side-by-side. He’d been feeling restless for the last two weeks, as if he needed some room to breathe. That strange, discomforting feeling of something slipping through his fingers wouldn’t let him truly rest, and though he was sleeping, he felt weary. He’d even snapped at Phoebe that afternoon, and she’d told him to get out of the house and come back in a better mood. He had apologized and acknowledged that she was right, he was on edge. Which was ridiculous, really. Who could be unhappy when they were about to have everything they wanted?

“No problem. You seem tense. Is—is everything going okay? With the wedding and all?”

Draco laughed. “Even if it weren’t, it wouldn’t be my place to worry. That’s Mother’s job, apparently.” He stopped abruptly outside of a higher end wizarding apparel shop. “Do you mind? I need to order my robes for the ceremony now that I’ve been given my marching orders.”

They entered and were immediately set upon by a fawning shop assistant who presented Malfoy with four different options in the midnight blue he’d requested. He selected two to try on and she resized them to his specifications. Draco headed into the fitting rooms and emerged long minutes later in one suit.

“I am leaning toward this one,” he said distractedly, brushing something from the leg of the slim trousers. Harry was thankful for the opportunity to check his chin for drool. The trousers were accompanied by a matching midnight waistcoat and a snowy white shirt. “I am to be in dark blue, as are Margot and Granger. Blaise will wear black, because it’s impossible to get him into anything else.”

“I think that looks very well,” Harry said simply. Then, grateful for the change of subject, “How is Zabini? I haven’t heard anything from him since he and Parkinson married and moved to the continent.”

Draco turned to examine the fall of the trousers from the back in a three-way mirror that whistled at him. He smiled faintly. “Enjoying Finland, as far as I know. Pansy will be staying home with Ivy and Fern, but you’ll be able to see Zabini for yourself at the stag nonsense next month.” He looked back over his shoulder when Harry didn’t respond. “You are coming, aren’t you? I’m afraid you’re a bit stuck with me now that you’ve decided to feed me.” He grinned.

Harry’s eyes had snapped away from Draco’s arse the moment he’d turned, but it took a few extra seconds to redirect his attention. “Of course I will, if you want.”

Draco’s shoulders relaxed, and his smile dimmed. “It means a lot, you know, to have your support. And not—not just now.”

Harry did his best to smile back and nodded. “Absolutely. Get changed and I’ll buy you lunch.”

 

 

July 31, 2001

“I’m surprised Malfoy isn’t here,” Ginny teased as she handed Harry his gift. “Seeing as how the two of you are joined at the hip and all.” The Three Broomsticks was filled to the brim for his birthday party.

“That’s not true. Anyway,” he continued, contradicting himself, “he wanted to come, but his parents insisted that he and Phoebe sit for their portrait today.”

“Very calculatedly, too,” Padma loudly whispered to Ginny, making the redhead roll her eyes.

“They don’t seem very happy with our friendship, no.” Harry avoided eye contact, rearranging the gifts. It was silly to feel lonely surrounded by so many people who made no secret of the fact that they loved him, and yet without Draco there, he did. It scared him a little to think that he might always feel that way—lonely in the middle of a crowd, lacking because of what he didn’t have, for which nothing he _did_ have could compensate.

It was true that he and Malfoy had been spending a lot of time together, but it just felt right to do so. They had seen each other the day before, in fact, when Draco had given Harry his birthday gift: a fine bottle of Scotch that was exactly seventeen years old. Harry’s question of the last two years had certainly been answered, which made him realize that it didn’t matter that Draco would be married, would go back to France, that it might be another two years—or longer—until they saw each other again after October. Harry’s feelings would remain just as steadfast as they had been.

Even though there was no hope.

Draco was happy. And Harry wanted him to be happy—deliriously, perfectly happy. Which meant putting a smile on his face and being supportive of the man he was falling for as he prepared to marry someone else.

“Come on,” Padma murmured, tugging at his elbow. “You look like you could use a drink, and everyone wants to wish you a happy birthday. Let’s make the rounds.”

 

 

August 18, 2001

_Your love_

_is better than chocolate,_

_better than anything else that I’ve tried._

_And oh, love is better than chocolate._

_Everyone here knows how to fight._

Draco sipped from his martini glass and scanned the room, wondering why he didn’t feel more excited. Many of his friends had come to celebrate with him; some from Paris, Blaise from Finland, Greg down from Scotland. They were in a well-appointed room at an upscale wizarding hotel with an open bar and a plethora of delicious food, courtesy of Potter, who had insisted on providing it as another gift. The menu was playful, symbolizing his farewell to bachelorhood with a selection of miniature gourmet burgers, small paper cones of chips, skewered bites of prime rib with an ale beurre blanc, and tiny chicken and cilantro tacos atop shot glasses of aged tequila. For dessert, there was rich, chocolate, two-tier cake.

While everything was practically perfect, Draco couldn’t help wishing that he and Harry could just skive off somewhere and do something fun. He immediately felt terrible for the thought; his other friends had traveled so far to see him. Yet, he couldn’t rouse much excitement for spending time surrounded by them.

 _It’s just because the wedding is still weeks away_ , he rationalized. He and Phoebe had agreed that it made sense not to wait until the last minute to sow their final oats, given how busy their schedules were. She was off enjoying an elaborate spa package with Granger and some of their other work friends before heading off to dinner. Of course he wouldn’t feel that excited about getting married with seven weeks to go, right?

“That doesn’t look like the fact of a man who’s having the time of his life,” Potter said with a smile, offering him a full martini glass.

“I guess I’ll never get to perform on the stage,” Draco chuckled. “Too bad.” He managed to pull his gaze away from Potter’s profile with a sigh. He was almost grateful that in less than two months he would be putting five hundred kilometers back between them. He had been right when he’d thought England was too small for both of them, but now he worried that once he was back in Paris, he might find that earth was too small, feeling the way that he did. Two years ago he hadn’t been able to put a name to it, but now he could, and too easily. Harry undid him. Made him want—things. Impossible things. Made him want—made him want.

He had second-guessed his plan to marry Phoebe a time or two, knowing it was likely unfair to both of them. But falling for Harry Potter had only made him more resolute. He had wondered if he was giving up too quickly on finding his soulmate. Now he knew he couldn’t have him, so it didn’t really matter who he married, did it?

Draco was startled out of his musings by a telling change in the background music, a new sultry tempo and increased volume. He groaned as two comely women entered the room dressed as French maids as most of the men whooped and cheered. The women headed directly for him, dancing, flirting, and brushing him with their feather dusters before they settled down to the business of removing what little clothing they wore.

He plastered on his best fake smile as he received the lap dances that were his due as the groom-to-be. Harry had moved a bit to accommodate the entertainers, and he managed to catch his eye over the head of the one currently wriggling across his thighs. He noticed that Potter didn’t seem to look any more interested than he was, his expression polite but emotionless, his eyes trained on Draco’s face rather than either of the attractive, nude women.

A tiny spark ignited in Draco’s brain. He told himself it was ridiculous, but the silly, deaf, blind thing that was hope whispered to him, urged the spark into a flame. His gaze was locked with Harry’s, who seemed as unable to look away as Draco was. The woman might as well not have existed, and after a few more moments they both moved away with dance for the other, more appreciative guests.

“Not your type?” Harry asked quietly.

“You might say that.” Draco cursed the small crack in his voice.

Harry’s indrawn breath was sharp, and his eyes roved over Draco’s face as they had several times over the past months. It was like a physical caress. “Draco…are you happy?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say no. It was right there. _They_ were right there—all of the things he’d wanted to tell Harry Potter for two years, all of the possibilities that had existed two years ago.

Two years ago, when he hadn’t had a fiancée who had been his best friend, who was depending on him.

Two years ago, when he didn’t have an over-the-top wedding nearly entirely planned.

Two years ago, when he hadn’t yet given his parents such relief and won back their pride.

Two years ago, when it wasn’t too late.

He again forced a smile to his lips. “Of course I’m happy. I’m getting married, and I have a good friend here to help me celebrate. What more could I want?”

Harry’s swallow was visible, but then he broke their eye contact and clinked his empty beer bottle against Draco’s glass. “Good,” he said quietly. “I’m glad.”

 

 

September 7, 2001

“I’m here,” Draco announced, sweeping up to the booth in the café that had become one of his and Harry’s favorites during their many shared lunches. “What was so urgent?” He shucked his mack and tossed it across the back of his side, noticing that Harry looked stressed. His eyes were bloodshot and bagged, and his hair was even messier than usual. He sat quickly to keep from touching the man. “What’s wrong?”

“I have some exciting news,” Harry said, though his voice was more monotone than enthusiastic. “I’ve been offered a position as head chef at an exclusive restaurant in Shanghai.”

Draco frowned. “And that’s what you want? I thought you loved your business.”

Harry looked away. “I do. But the long hours, and the demanding clients…” He gave Draco a week smile. “Present company excluded, of course.”

 _He’s lying._ Draco knew it as surely as he knew his own name, because he knew every nuance of Harry Potter now. But he suspected he knew why, and it wouldn’t do any good to call Harry out on his dissembling, would it? Especially since he could offer no solution. He couldn’t be so ungenerous. “Well then, I’m happy for you.” His smile was the familiar, empty, fake one that he had become so good at since the spring. “When do you leave?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Draco…”

Cold dread pooled in his belly.

“I’m so sorry, but I won’t be here for your wedding. Don’t worry about the food,” he rushed on, and Draco knew his face had gone ashen. “Everything is ready to go, and my team is great. I promise they won’t even need me there to make everything perfect…”

Harry trailed off and looked away, and several moments of silence passed.

“So soon?” Draco finally managed.

“A week from today.”

 _Further than Paris_ , was the inane thought that kept scrolling through Draco’s mind. There would be no accidental—or non-accidental—run-ins during visits to his parents, no friendly visits by Harry to the home he and Phoebe would share in Paris. It would be the end of whatever this half-thing was. Stunned, he looked up and met Harry’s eyes, and saw his own realization reflected. It had to be everything or nothing, and Draco couldn’t offer him everything. So, it was to be a clean break.

They sat in silence for another quarter hour before quietly parting ways with a long handshake and a lingering look, neither realizing they had forgotten to order lunch.

 

 

September 14, 2001

_Has he reached the station yet?_

Draco checked the time again and reckoned not, with traffic.

“Draco?” Phoebe murmured. He turned his attention back to her, feeling dull.

Padma continued the sentence where she had left off when they’d realized his attention had wandered. “Now, I have the three selections that your mother insisted on for the arrival of the guests, and I know both of you were fine with them. I also have the list of classical pieces you’ve selected for the ceremony, and the ballad you’ve chosen for your first dance. You said you were flexible on the music for the cocktail hour and dinner, but I think we should select a song for your ceremonial cake cutting. The photographer will want to get pictures, and it gives your guests something to focus on besides the way you eat.” She smiled pleasantly. “I have samples of several songs that have been popular with other couples, if you’d like to hear them.”

“I would,” Phoebe said enthusiastically. “I think that would be helpful. Draco?”

 _He’ll be on his way, though. On his way to the International Portkey Station and gone again._ He started out the window.

“DRACO?”

Phoebe raised a brow at him when he turned back once more. “I’m sorry,” he said listlessly. “Yes, of course. A song would be nice.”

Padma nodded, brow wrinkled with concern, and waved her wand to start the music. Draco listened carefully, attempting to feel something.

_…and it’s a long way down,_

_it’s a long way down,_

_it’s a long way down_

_to the place where we started from._

He held himself perfectly still as the last notes trailed away, knowing if he moved he would break like so much glass.

“Draco?” his fiancée asked softly. He felt her hand on his cheek, her fingers brushing his skin, and realized she was wiping away tears that were clinging to his bottom lashes. He turned and looked into her concerned face, the face of his friend—his friend. Suddenly light and color were everywhere.

“Phoebe, I—” he searched for the right words, pleading with his eyes.

She drew in a shaky breath, and then it rushed out with a sigh. “Draco Malfoy, I have just one thing to say to you,” she said crisply.

He nodded, knowing he deserved whatever was coming for getting them both into this. He glanced down with surprise when he felt something in his hand and found her engagement ring. His quizzical gaze quickly returned to her face. Her lips curved.

“Run, you idiot.”

He was out the door so quickly that he missed the two women he left behind throwing their arms around each other with exuberant joy.

He’d had an idea that he would run into the station and declare himself in a big, romantic gesture. Harry would kiss him, and everyone would clap, like in a film. But Harry hadn’t been anywhere in the terminal for Asia, and a kiosk worker had assured him that Harry’s portkey had not yet left.

He assumed that Harry was running late, and he quickly amended his plan to include a kiss on Harry’s front steps, after which all of his neighbors—who would happen to be outside—would clap. But Harry didn’t answer his buzzer. Slightly panicky now, and out of plans, he decided to return home and Floo call Granger for help.

Except that when he apparated onto his parents’ walkway, he found Harry Potter sitting on their front steps.

“I had a plan,” Harry said almost angrily, standing as Draco approached.

Draco bit back a smile. “Yes, well, so did I.”

“I was going to China. I was going to forget you,” Harry growled. He paced the width of the top step.

“And I was going to get married.” Draco moved closer, stopping only when his toes hit the riser of the bottom step.

Harry paused, his attention snapping to Draco’s grinning face. “Was?”

Holding his gaze, Draco stepped up onto the stair. “Was.”

Harry dropped his head and looked at his shoes. He reached up and tugged at his hair. When he raised his head again, he was grinning, too. “Draco Malfoy, since the second I met you, you have been fucking difficult.”

Draco climbed the next step, making them of a height. “Harry Potter, from the second I met you, you have ruined fucking _everything_.”

Calloused fingers reached up and brushed fine hair out of his eyes before trailing over his brow and down his cheek. Draco trembled.

“But it was always this, wasn’t it?” Harry asked softly.

He nodded, then leaned in for a kiss that was better than ice cream, better than chocolate, and better than wedding cake.

 

 

Epilogue

“I can’t find my tie. Have you seen my tie?”

Draco grabbed the length of crimson fabric from the lampshade where it had been tossed the first time they had attempted to dress. “I swear, I don’t know how you ever found anything without me, Potter,” he mumbled, tossing Harry the tie before fastening his cufflinks. “Or how you ever got anywhere on time.”

“I didn’t. Luckily I have you to keep me in line now.” Harry leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Draco’s head as he knotted his tie and the blond slipped into his shoes. “We’re not going to be late, we have twenty minutes. Besides, it’s not like they can start the wedding without us.”

“Still, I am not going to be late. Do you have everything?”

Harry checked his pockets and nodded. Draco grabbed his late grandfather’s watch from the bedside table and fastened it on their way out the door.

The wedding was beautiful. Harry and Draco had made it just in time and had taken their places in front of the altar. Moments later, lovely classical music had filled the venue as the brides walked together down the aisle. Phoebe had chosen a simple sheath dress much different from the elaborate gown Narcissa had pressured her into buying when she was engaged to Draco, and Padma wore a sophisticated silk pantsuit. They both radiated pure happiness and hope, and when the vows were finished, there wasn’t a dry eye among the guests.

Draco and Harry’s arrival had, in fact, been perfectly times to avoid conversation with Lucius and Narcissa, but they were unavoidable at the reception. They glared at Harry but otherwise ignored him, as was their habit.

“Draco,” his mother said, frostily bussing his cheek. His father gave him a nod.

“Mother, father. You both look well.”

“Do I?” Narcissa asked with a patently false look of appreciation. “That’s surprising, considering the _complete and crushing disappointment I have been carrying around for a year.”_

Harry buried his smile in his shoulder and Draco glanced around quickly to make sure none of the other guests were paying them any attention before sighing. “Mother, not this again—”

“Not only did you marry—” Lucius did his own quick scan of the room and lowered his voice to a sharp whisper, “a _man_ , _Harry Potter,_ if any other man wouldn’t have been bad enough, but—”

“You _eloooooped_!” Narcissa wailed, in the same tone she used every single time the fact was mentioned; which was to say, every single time they conversed.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Mother, really—”

“Wedding cake?” asked a server, proffering a tray of small plates containing delicate, white-frosted slices of the citrus confection Harry had provided. He shook his head.

“Why yes,” Harry said loudly, “I would love some cake.” He took two slices and handed one to Draco. “Now Mrs. Malfoy, please continue telling us how I’m all wrong for Draco and—oops!”

Draco hoped his husband had no secret dreams of becoming a stunt man, because it was the worst fake stumble he’d ever seen. Still, it did the trick. Harry’s cake was smeared across the front of Narcissa’s dress. His mother’s expression was frozen horror, and their surroundings seemed to freeze along with it.

Surprisingly, it was Lucius Malfoy who broke it. He was laughing harder than Draco had ever seen him laugh, doubled over and holding his sides. “Well,” he gasped out, “fair play, Potter. Can’t say I haven’t—” he struggled for a breath, “haven’t fantasized about doing that at the breakfast table myself!”

Narcissa slowly turned her head toward him, pinning him with a terrifying glare that only made him laugh harder. After a few moments, she allowed her expression to relax. “Darling?”

Lucius, finally calmed and lulled by her honeyed tone, took a step closer. “Yes, my sweet? Do you wish to dance?”

In response, Narcissa smashed her own plate of cake directly into her husband’s smiling face. The plate itself fell to the floor with a clatter, leaving streaks of buttercream and lemon curd crisscrossing Lucius’ aristocratic features. “I presume,” he said haltingly, taking a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, “that’s a ‘no,’ then.” He dabbed at his face.

Harry tugged his astonished husband away from the scene of the crime. “Well, _I_ would like to dance,” he murmured, holding out his arms.

Draco shook off his concern for his parents’ mental states and smiled, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. They joined Hermione and Ron, Neville and Ginny, and Phoebe and Padma on the dance floor and began to sway.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/155523.html).


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